


The Search

by orphan_account



Series: Late Series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Angst, Bromance, Dystopia, F/F, F/M, Mild Gore, Pining, Pre-Slash, Slashy, Violence, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 15:12:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of the zombie take over, John Watson would still do anything for Sherlock.</p>
<p>He just has to find him first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Search

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings:
> 
> This fic has death, gore, blood, all the zombie toppings. Enter at thy own risk.  
> Sherlock is not nor has ever been mine.
> 
> Not beta'd so if you spot mistakes point them out.I do my best to catch them but I'm only human.

**July:**

            In retrospect, the first zombie he kills isn’t all that frightening.

 

            That’s not to say that  there are some zombies aren’t horrific. They all are disturbing on some level, flesh walking with white eyes and a heart that lies in their chest unused.  But some look more like human than monsters.  The ones who’s flesh is still in one piece, the ones who’s clothes are still intact, the ones who who’s bones stay tucked inside their flesh and there is not a single trace of blood to dispel the illusion.

 

            John hates these the most. Those make it harder to remind himself that they’re no longer alive. That they can no longer be saved.

 

            The first zombie John kills is exactly like that. She’s in her 30’s, tall and slender, blond hair that dangles down her back. The mortician must have done her nails, her hair, and her makeup, each of them much more in place than when she had been alive. She has no cuts, no bruises, though her skin is such a pale white it looks like paper, and she is wearing a nice respectful blue dress that goes just below the knees. It’s was the same color her eyes were before they rolled up into the back of her skull never to be seen again.

 

            That is what makes John shoot.  The fact that he can’t see that same light baby blue that he has known since he could walk.

 

            His gun goes off. Blood splatters the wall. The zombie falls to the ground, hole right between her eyes and the room of mourners screams as the run away from the incoming horde upcoming over the hill. John closes his eyes, rubbing his temples trying not to look down at his older sister who he has now lost twice.

 

            Harry still lays there her eyes white. John sighs before taking off. It’s his first undead kill.

 

            It won’t be his last.

 

 

            When John was in the war, he thought he knew what chaos was. The loud screams wails of the injured. The bangs and flashes of gunfire. The utter lack of direction on what to do. That was true chaos in his mind.

 

            Ever since after he has seen things differently.

 

            He doesn’t like to flash back on it. How he ran through crowds of people, yells ringing in his ears, as smell of decomposing flesh filled the air. He blocks how when he ran out of ammo he had to start using cruder objects, bats, planks of wood, a metal rod. How he could hear the crunch of bone as he swung, the groan of blood bubbling in ones throat, the look of pure emptiness as another went down.

 

            Later, as he rests in a cave halfway back to London his dreams are not tinged with the brown desert sand of Afghanistan. No, instead he sees the grey concrete splashed with red. Of his sister’s blue eyes staring into nothing.

 

            He wakes up screaming for the first time in two years.

 

 

 

 

 

 

            Part of him wonders if Sherlock saw it coming.

 

            Not Harry’s death of course, everyone saw that coming, even John. He could hear the tick in the back of his head as his sister drank herself to death on whiskey and wine. He had tried to stop it, to prevent the timer from reaching zero but stopping the inevitable is easier said than done so when the call came a Sunday morning that John was needed a few hours away for his sister’s funeral it was no shock.

 

            No, he wonders if Sherlock saw this coming, the zombies lurching across the streets, thirsty for blood and flesh. He wonders if he saw the collapse coming on, the tumbling of civilization as they knew it, the scent of burning corpses that would fill the air.

 

            After a few moments of thinking he decides that Sherlock must have been as caught off guard as he was. Sherlock may be insane at times but he is rational.

 

            No rational man ever lets his solider run off right before a battle.

 

 

 

            He reaches London on foot seven days after. He leaves after four hours after entering the city.

 

            The place once so full of life is now nothing but smoldering embers, zombies and rags.  Abandoned cabs litter the sides of the road; items sprawled across the street from what must have been a rushed escape. From what John can tell most were not successful; blood pools in the gutters and stains the sidewalks.

 

            Baker Street is still in one piece, though the outside of the building is burnt.  He can see a burnt corpse right in front and does his best not to look at it too closely. That fails massively when he sees a bracelet on its wrist, one given to Ms. Hudson last year for Christmas.

 

            John has to support himself against the building to keep from passing out.

 

            Upstairs is a disaster. Sherlock is not there, nothing but the remnants of their life. The skull is still on the mantle and after a second of though, he places it in his bag.

 

            Not only genius needs an audience.

 

            He packs up some clothes, tossing them in the bag with carefree abandon. His gun comes as well along with anything weapon like he can find. There’s a scabbard in Sherlock’s closet and John decides it’s best not to question how Sherlock got it before thrusting it into his bag. He grabs some of Sherlock’s case notes and notices happily that the other man’s violin is gone. There is a note on the desk, the name Liberte inscribed into the wood and John writes it down stuffing it into his pockets.  Using the knife stuck into the mantle he writes something on one of the fireplace brick walls.

 

            “I’m coming.”

 

            He leaves the city right after that.  As soon as he gets a mile away he turns around to watch the city burst into another round of flames. Planted explosives from his point of view.

 

            Funny how one of the ways people are trying to prevent death is by causing more of it. John laughs for a few minutes before collapsing into the bushes to throw up.

 

            It was a long time coming.

 

 

 

**August:**

 

            He finds a group sometime in his travels, though he can’t remember quiet how. The sweltering heat manages to block out most thoughts that aren’t for direct survival.

 

            They travel on foot. It’s a group of five if you don’t include John. There is a tall man who was also once in the army, a young child who’s is around seven, his mother who was a lawyer, a girl around twenty years of age who was a musician and a school teacher by the name of Mary.

 

            They all have different goals, different destinations. The army man is looking for a safe zone. The women is looking for her husband, a dentist from America. The girl is after her girlfriend, a young artist who worked in London. Mary is looking for her father, an elderly man who had gone to Sussex a few days before after happened.

 

            No one really knows what John is after. He seems to stand with the army man on a safe zone but while they stay up at night on watch they start to notice how he runs his thumb over a slip of paper.

 

            It is only until he starts telling stories of a great detective around the fire place at night to the rest of the crowd do they put a name to his objective.

 

            Sherlock Holmes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

            The stories are varied, the adventures long, but everyone in the group sits transfixed at the man who’s eyes come alive as he weaves the tales of his flatmate.

 

            Few of them have ever heard of him but after each night they know more than enough to know how close John is to the lost man. John tells the stories factually, of crime rings and murders but underneath his tales they can all pick up on the fairy tale of a man who was brought back to life by a mysterious figure in a long coat.

 

            All of them secretly hope for John’s sake that Sherlock is still alive. John doesn’t even bother.

 

            Sherlock wouldn’t dare to die before John got back to him.

 

 

 

 

            Each of them have jobs, but John has two. John is the doctor of the group. He stiches up wounds, makes sure that everyone is getting enough food, patches up scrapes. He smiles at his patients with kind eyes and soft words as he examines damage done.

 

            It is only during raids the second job comes to light. In the dark of night he stands lookout, gun raised ready to fire. Whenever a zombie appears in sight a shot goes off.

 

            He never misses.

 

 

 

            The others have stories as well. Mary likes to tell them stories about her young students causing chuckles as she gets into a conversation about a boy who got his hand stuck in a trumpet. John likes those, no; he likes Mary with her soft sweet smile, long blond hair and brown eyes.

 

            He doesn’t make a move. Ever since after he’s not sure is making a move is still something people do anymore.

 

            The army man tells him stories of his tour, the women tells stories of how she met her husband, and her son tells him stories about his father. The girl asks John about Sherlock’s violin playing, in awe of his possible talent. She too likes telling stories of the people she has lost, her girlfriend coming up on regular occasions. They stick to happy topics, things that don’t add blackness to the world, to keep things light.

 

            Everything is coated in despair enough to keep adding to it.

 

 

 

 

 

**September:**

 

 

            It is in September that they catch it, a whisper of a name, a hope, a safe zone.

 

            Liberte.

 

            The location is inaccurate at best, the travel time around a month or so if they walk fast with no problems. But freedom is freedom. Most of them jump for it.

 

            Most.

 

            The women shakes her head as she clutches her son closer. John has asked, pleaded, begged with her for hours, to come with them instead of heading to Leeds in vain for her husband. There have been rumors about populated cities and very few of them are good.

 

            When the argument reaches a climax she slaps him, yelling that if it was Sherlock what he would do. John remains silent and doesn’t say a word as she walks away into the night, her young son pulling on her hand.

 

            The army man shakes his head. The teenage girl frowns. Mary wishes them luck. John says nothing.

 

            It is only until after dark when everyone is asleep does John take out a blue scarf he had taken from Baker Street and wonders how much of a hypocrite he really is.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

            It is a few weeks in when food slowly begins to become a problem.

 

            Early on, it wasn’t too terrible. The wild had things that could be eaten, and popping into an abandoned store usually worked nicely. But now, most food has expired, most places have been cleaned out and soon the winter will take away anything to be found in the wild.

 

            It leaves few options. The best of the lot is to go into once populated towns to find food, hoping to be able to fend off anything the run into.

 

            At first it works fine. They get in and out. The girl is good with a gun and Mary has a nice backswing. However on the fourth raid or so, John wanders into a store to find a man lying on the ground, his hand out shaking towards John.

 

            “Please,” he begs his voice raw. “Please help me.”

 

            John automatically steps forward, he is a doctor, his job is to help, until he sees the large bite wound on the man’s leg. He steps back at that, raising his gun and the man whimpers.

 

            “Please, maybe I won’t get infected. My other group left me here but I’m sure. Someone has to be immune, please don’t leave me-“

 

            The bang echoes across the room. John doesn’t even register he shot until he looks down to find his hand shaking so hard that he drops his gun. His leg gives out a few seconds later and he collapses looking forward blankly at the dead man’s body for god knows how long.

 

            Mary is the one who finds him, who wraps her arms around him and lets him sob into her t-shirt. It lasts only a few minutes but it is enough and later John gets up, his hand no longer shaking to grab some food.

 

            The night after everyone else is asleep Mary sits next to John on the log in front of the fire.  He reaches his hand towards her before pulling it back. Mary smiles and grabs it before he can fully retract it and kisses him on the cheek. John responds by kissing her on the mouth.

 

            He sleeps without nightmares that night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

            While most of John’s days now have nothing to do with his life on Baker Street that doesn’t stop him from seeing the parallels.

 

            When the army man gets into debates with Mary on whether Pluto is still a planet all John can see is Sherlock debating about the point of the solar system. When the girl complains about being bored, lying on a log in a sprawl, all he can see is Sherlock on the couch in his blue robe moaning at the dullness of the world.

 

            John is pretty sure Sherlock probably isn’t finding life that dull anymore. Though he wishes more than anything to see it himself for his own eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

            After Mary and John become whatever constitutes a relationship these days, John is approached by the girl. She is furious, poking his chest as she tells him he should be ashamed for cheating on his boyfriend.

 

            John almost starts to laugh before he comes to the conclusion she might not be that far off.

 

            No, John Watson does not have feelings for Sherlock Holmes in the traditional sense. He has no desire to kiss the man senseless or do any of the things he does with Mary. At least not in the time he had lived with the man. Despite Harry’s teasing John has always been and still is heterosexual.

 

            That being said however, Sherlock isn’t exactly just his friend. It doesn’t seem fitting, almost cheapening the relationship. No, what they are goes beyond friendship, a kind of understanding you’re lucky to find only once in a lifetime.

 

            He decides not to define it then explaining to the girl exactly what Sherlock is to him as best as he can. She nods, apologizes for attacking him, and before she walks off she smirks.

 

            “I think the word you’re looking for is love. I would know; what do you think I feel about my girlfriend?”

 

            John isn’t quite sure how to respond to that.

 

 

 

 

**October:**

 

 

            Somewhere deep inside, John knows he shouldn’t hold out hope Sherlock is alive.

 

            It’s idealism and he knows it. Sherlock may have been brilliant but the man could no beat death. Between the zombies, the lack of food and the bombs the chances Sherlock made it out intact are slim to none.

 

            But Sherlock has made miracles happen before. And John would be damned before he stopped dreaming for another one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

            Eventually, John’s Sherlock stories start to branch out.

 

            He begins to discuss Lestrade’s patience with an impossible man, Ms. Hudson’s cooking, Mycroft’s creepy ways of introductions and Molly’s chipperness even around a dead body.

 

            He misses them as well. He has a personal list of people he wants to run find. Dead or alive.

 

            It’s better to know than waste his hopes on something he can no longer fix.

 

 

 

 

 

 

            They are only a few miles from Liberte when it happens.

 

            It was supposed to be a simple food raid. The city was supposed to be cleaned out. They had checked. It was supposed to be a quick in and out.

 

            They figure out that plan was an illusion as they turn out of the store to find a horde approaching.

 

            There are not the type of zombies John encountered the first few weeks. These zombies show decay, flesh hangs off the edges and bones stick out of the skin. Some of them have burnt skin and John tries not to flinch as Mary screams.

 

            Mary never screams. John doesn’t realize why until he sees her pointing at the women who had left their group in the crowd, her throat cut. Her son is nowhere in sight but her hand he had clasped is drenched in blood.

 

            The rest is a nightmare of flesh and blood.

 

            John can only pick out bits and pieces. He can remember the army man getting dragged to the left his screams blending into the zombies moans. He can remember the running the blind frantic running as fast as they could, Mary’s hand in his. He remembers turning around to find that the girl was nowhere in sight. He remembers yelling as Mary’s hand suddenly disappeared from his.

 

            He does not remember tripping and hitting his head on a rock. He does not remember being found.

 

            He does remember hoping as blackness faded over him whispering one thing.

 

            “Please god let me live. For him, let me live.”

 

 

 

 

 

**November:**

 

            John has recently found the black and white separations fit nothing anymore. Dead is no longer dead. Good is now tinted with evil. Everything has been flipped on its head and distorted till it is a puzzle that he thinks even Sherlock can’t solve.

 

            Liberte is no different.

 

            He isn’t allowed in the main city for at least two weeks after entering. It’s a safety measure, and John understands all too much.

 

            That being said, he isn’t happy when he wakes up to find that they won’t at least ask if there is a Sherlock residing in the main city.

 

            Mary is fine, trying to help anywhere she can. She and John share a small hut and it’s pleasant. Part of John is curious to how Sherlock will take it (if he’s inside that is) to his flatmate moving out.

 

            The girl didn’t make it inside. While patrollers may have found Mary and John there was no sign of the musician who wanted to see her girlfriend. Her smile and green eyes are added to the faces that haunt John’s dreams.

 

            John searches the city to kill time, looks around for any sign of anyone he knows. He comes up dry and starts waiting by the gates into Liberte hoping that if he stands there perhaps he can hear of see Sherlock through the gate.

 

            Later, to keep time he gets a job as a doctor. He doesn’t expect much work.

 

            Then the flu hits and John finds himself buried deep once again in death.

 

 

 

 

**December:**

 

 

            She dies in the first week.

 

            The flu is a menace that none of them can see, unlike the zombies. You can see one of them approach, know your time is coming, prepare.

 

            With this there is no preparing. Just the burning pain of fever and misery.

 

            Mary is fine, so fine that John doesn’t even bother to worry at first. She goes around helping make blankets for the cold. Her smile is as bright as ever. It’s like thinking the sun could go out; impossible, improbable. So he devotes his time to dealing with children who come in, mothers, anyone who’s breaths come out choked and staggered.

 

            Then he comes back to the hut to find Mary collapsed on the ground burning up. And suddenly everything changes.

 

            She isn’t lucid for most of it, twitching in her sleep as she dreams of many lost souls. John holds her hand, desperately tries to keep her temperature down only to be beaten by a monster he cannot fight. In the last minutes, she smiles, that same smile that made John love her in the first place and kisses his cheek.

 

            “Tell Sherlock I say hello. He’s a lucky man to have a friend like you.”

 

            Five minutes later Mary’s heart stops beating. Her hand grows slack. Her eyes close.

 

            John Watson’s world goes grey.

 

 

 

 

 

            He doesn’t catch it despite all the time he spends treating it. No, he works day and night, every hour, trying to break anyone of its clutches. Sleep is a rarity and somewhere deep down John can here Sherlock chiding him for the same thing he chided Sherlock on months ago. The only thing that manages to slow John down is a trip on ice that sprains his ankle.

 

            He is stuck inside the hut for a week to rest on it. He talks to the skull.

 

            Who else is there to listen?

 

 

**January:**

**  
**

            When he is finally walking into the gates of Liberte, he doesn’t recognize him at first.

 

            They’ve decided John is safe to go and as soon as he steps in he spots him. His leg has healed up but he still has a painful throb in it, a ghost of the limp he once had.

 

Part of him is worried it’s going to come back. Another part of him can’t muster up enough energy to care.

 

On the other side of the gates there is a tall man dressed in rags that are leaning heavily on a cane. He’s thin, John can see his ribs through the holes in his shirt, and he shakes a little in the wind. His black hair looks like it was cut with a knife, he has five O’ clock shadow, and John doesn’t fully recognize him until he spots the grey blue eyes that he knows so well.

 

            In most reunions like these, the two reunited friend would run towards each other in a big hug and tell each other how much they missed the other. But John and Sherlock have never been normal and there is a limp for both of them to consider. So they walk slowly until Sherlock is standing right in front of John, his eyes staring and John frowns noticing that he’s even skinnier up close.

 

            “Have you gotten even skinnier on me? God Sherlock I swear-“

 

He doesn’t finish because the taller starts hugging him as hard as he can. John didn’t even know Sherlock did hugs.

 

            He doesn’t mind the surprise.

 

            When Sherlock finally lets him go, he grabs his shoulders and says very carefully.

            “You, John Watson, are very late.”

 

            John just laughs as the world around him suddenly starts to gain hints color once more.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
